


Stars and Darkness: Four Stages of Grief

by 2Nienna2, Torpi



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Avari, Gen, Languages and Linguistics, Nandor - Freeform, The Noldor, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Nienna2/pseuds/2Nienna2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torpi/pseuds/Torpi
Summary: What really happened when the Quenya ban was announced? How did the Noldor react? And how did it affect both Noldor and the other elves from Beleriand?A look at what might have been.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Auhanta (Denial)

**Author's Note:**

> This work is co-created with the lovely 2Nienna2, who has provided the art prompt and patiently answered all my questions, checked my work every step and offered great insights.  
> Also shout-out to my amazing beta-reader, ignoblebard, who helped put my messy ideas into ordered phrases.  
> Thnak you both.

  


Lossiriel returns from the path of dreams feeling slightly sick. Looking around the room[1] , she sees that Nercamo has already left, leaving his reports neatly arranged in rows and columns depending on the material. Hers are strewn haphazardly around the oak table, an amalgam of partially unfolded parchments, a couple of pieces of stiff paper, and some silk handkerchiefs[2]. The reports from knotted ropes are tangled on the floor. _Nercamo’s cat ha_ _s_ _been at it again_ _,_ she thinks, both irritated and amused. The precious manuscripts are kept separately at least.

She had helped the understaffed personnel manage the urgent reports for grain planting and horticulture, making estimations on the self-sufficiency of the crop yields this year, as well as strategies in case of crop failure and possibility of supply to the other regions. After that, while Rána chased Arien five times, she and Nercamo read and compiled their own due reports at a frantic pace, aided sporadically by the others, who had been pulled into other operations but had not been pulled south or on patrols to the northern borders with Maitimo Fëanorian’s forces. 

Looking down at her wax tablet, Lossiriel groans. A perfect imprint of her arm has erased the careful rows of numbers and names. She had tracked the distribution of ink stones in all regions, compiled the feedback reports comparing density, ease of use, refinement, price versus quality and composition, and sifted through the usual but annoying comments on possible improvements that apparently everybody could do if they had time. Some were thoughtful, others quite insane (mostly from Curufinwë’s side), but most were relieving their own frustrations by making some obscure joke to the others’ commentaries. Others wrote instructions in limericks, and one of Curufinwë’s scribes had started the ‘write with experimental ink’ trend which ranged from fruit juice, some weird, metallic stiff matter that burned if it came in contact with the skin, and something that was most definitely _not_ urine but managed to give that exact impression. Even the smell was similar, but she could name a few compounds that could make it like that. And since paper was not in abundance, all these were written in a small cramped style that looked almost like a solid blob of ink. Either that or it was written on top of another comment. Reading these gave her a headache. The most unexpected and explosive mix had been the King’s contribution. She had assumed this meant it was for his brother’s eyes and called him for a possible secret urgent message. When Carnistir came and opened the seal, the writing immediately reddened when in contact with light and air and burned so quickly she almost didn’t have time to read the message. It started with`how fast can you read?’ The detailed instruction for its making and the personal message to Carnistir were lost with the flames and ensuing explosion. Now she knew why the tying knot had had the meaning `to be read in controlled conditions.’ Carnistir had laughed as she hadn’t heard him do so in a long time. Nothing like a little explosion to cheer a little brother up, she supposed. It seemed all _toronya_ were the same, no matter their age.

And now, everything is gone and the main reports, the knots, are tangled in an indistinguishable heap. Just thinking about reconstructing the meaning gives her another headache. ‘ Another weak point we must take into account and prepare for, ’ she thinks. Turcafinwë had told them this might happen, quoting that exact same situation. She wonders if he had experienced it or if, since he was friends with Nercamo, he had simply predicted an unavoidable incident. 

She looks optimistically at the report analysis on the supply of writing implements for the other high princes that Waraion had helpfully written for her, despite his increased workload in the forge. Yes, his writing was as atrocious as before. If exposure to him might make one see past his faults, his writing had the opposite effect. His letters seemed to chase each other like a herd of mountain goats frolicking on the slopes of Taniquetil, Móroner had said once. That was an understatement. It seemed twice as hard now to look past the burns, stains and the odd scratch and tear to concentrate on his squiggles.

She misses the soft white paper from Netë’s shop in Valinor, the glowing ink that shimmers on the page, and most of all the special ink Móroner had made once, an ink that had air as its canvas, with the words shifting to their images and back.

She remembers Móroner experimenting with it in the fountain plaza during the mingling of the lights. Fëanor, passing by with his father and other council members, took note of it, detached immediately from the group and after a brief talk with Móroner, promptly started punctuating his ongoing arguments with flourishes of ink. His explanations on the improvement of some alloy and thus its expanded uses captivated not only the council but everybody in the plaza. Kids loved the sparkly ink, and the older elves felt they understood perfectly some obscure craft. When Fëanor explained something, he explained _well_ _._ She would never forget Móroner’s expression then, and afterwards, when Finwë complimented him as well and called him his present name. And so Lission became Móroner. Excited Fëanor always made events: his children’s begetting and birth dates were sure to have some amazing display of power and artistry for everybody to see. Fëanor inventing the palantiri; Feanor inventing a new alloy; Fëanor cutting gems differently; Fëanor and his lamps; Fëanor and the Silmarils. All of these and many others became a celebratory event. Some from his brother’s group snidely said that if he farted in public he would have been in perfect harmony and pitch with the surrounding sounds. And Finwë would probably throw him a party for that as well. Others said that everybody would throw a party if Fëanor would _not_ fart in perfect pitch. It would certainly be a cause for celebration.

Lossiriel is jolted violently out of her reverie by Sornë, who bursts into the room with a bang. Nammaffírië, the cat, who had apparently hidden in an upper row, yowled and streaked out, managing to crash most books and scrolls on her way. Sornë yelps and crashes into another shelf, which wobbles dangerously, and the scrolls section on grain and horticulture yield reports topple on the floor in a heap.`Lossiriel!,’ she shouts, ignoring the mess.`Come quickly, the messengers have come and we need another scribe. Also ink, paper.’

`Why am I needed in council? She asks, bewildered. `I am in the reports section. For writing supplies. And lately for grain’ she adds, grimacing and rubbing her temples. Her eyes are watering.

`Tiwiel is out of commission,’ Sornë replies tersely while shoving the books and scrolls haphazardly back on the shelves. ‘Waraion and Móroner are not here. You are the closest. Also, we need more ink and paper[3]`. She starts rummaging for a blank scroll.

Lossiriel shakes her head.`Good luck with that. You would easier find a painite in a copse of trees. 

Sornë ignores her completely, searching frantically in the mess of writing supplies. `Is there _anything_ fit to write on here? Where _is_ the blank parchment? Or paper? Is it all gone already? Don’t you have any filing system here?`

`We do have a system,` Lossiriel says drily, ‘a system which you and Death Claw Miuë managed to destroy quite quickly. This is not the warehouse, but you won’t really find anything there anyway. We don’t have a lot of paper or parchment or papyrus or tablets left,’ she adds, sighing. `We got the last shipment in autumn, and the really good paper has already become diplomatic letters.` (and the odd poem by Makalaure, but _that_ she kept private. Good paper was hard to find and Carnistir was a good little brother, always sending him his best paper in larger quantities than necessary.) `Can’t we use some knots in the meeting and then do a quick embroidery instead? We still have some quality squares of cloth and coloured rope. The knot system is almost as fast as writing and is mostly standardized. Or alternatively, just write on the mountain for all to see. Everybody knows the news as soon as the council is out because of those nosy gossiping ushers[4].`

Sornë winces and straightens slowly. Her wound from Dagor Aglareb seemed to bother her more today, but her voice is cheery when she replies, ignoring Lossiriel’s jibes. ‘Your system needs to be better then, I did you a favour showing you the weak points in yours. Yes, we might as well use knots. Which ones, the ones Miuë played with?’ 

`Please, don’t you start as well. Mom talks about weak points in the new aqueduct, my _toronya_ got corrupted by uncle and is babbling about weak pressure points of materials on a molecular level and changing things in their basic elements. Lately he’s testing himself on _everything_. Did I tell you he almost crashed the roof over our heads while singing the wood to smoke? He said he wanted to see if he could release oxygen in case he got stuck in a sealed chamber.’

`Your _atya_ does seem quite harassed lately,` Sornë says, sounding amused. `He’s a just a cute, energetic little boy.`

`Since your brother is Lacarmo, I am going to assume your definition of _cute_ is skewed. Here, I found a blank parchment. Although I hope it’s not the only blank piece available to the scribes since they would need to write in ant letters to be able to fit everything on it.’

`Or maybe do it like _to’nya_ did at Metherd Adred?` Sornë replies, grinning.

`The infamous `The meeting was satisfactory?’ Your _lil’ bro_ is the only one with the oratory skills and audacity to pull it through. Must be because he got pampered and taught word-games by Macalaurë all the time when he was little[6]. I remember Angarato’s face when he forced the representatives to agree that his laconic phrase was both accurate and encompassing. Carnistir was positively gleeful, because it pissed Angarato off, and agreed with him quite readily despite the extra work he had to do afterwards. Why didn’t you call for him to help?`

`My cute little _toronya_ is forbidden to take minutes[7] again,` Sornë says proudly. `Something about his brilliance being too much for a normal meeting.` She sobers immediately. `Besides, he got called to the northern patrol.`

`Maybe you can also get a new baby brother then since you like them so much. Ask Lacarmo to be on the lookout,` she quips.

‘I should hope there aren’t more Moriquendi settlements attacked by yrch.’

Lossiriel colours. `Of course, ‘ she mumbles. `I do not wish that fate on anyone. I just hope we will find survivors.`

Sornë shot her a sympathetic glance. `We are already late, Loriel, O’ Daughter of Dreams. We should hurry. Where is your liquid ink? Oh, you knocked it over.`

‘Miuë did,’ Lossiriel interjects automatically.

‘Well, that’s a mess I’m not going to be able to help you with,’ Sornë continues undaunted.`Ask Waraion to teach you the cleaning song, he had a lot practice with _to’ny_ a[8]. Otherwise Móroner will make that stern and disappointed face and you’ll be too embarrassed to show your face there again.’

`Waraion, cleaning? He might start with his papers then. You definitely don’t have your brother’s talent for deflection, I feel compelled to add. Is it really that bad?` Lossiriel asks rounding the table. Her shoe touchess a spreading puddle of black ink that has morphed into the rusty colour of congealing blood. Her nostrils are suddenly clogged with the smell of blood and her hands start shaking. They are sticky with blood and slimy with dripping viscera. The floor starts tilting, and somewhere there are screams and the sound of waves churning and spraying… She blinks and her face is wet.

Sornë is looking at her, mouthing urgently.

`…take the ink stone and two ink sticks. Take the ropes as well. You’ll probably need a lot of red, gold, and silver but take all colours, and some undyed ropes as well. It’s an unannounced meeting so we don’t know what to expect. Your father is already there. He’ll do the writing, on whatever things he has, and you’ll do knots. Let’s go!`

She practically throws the ropes in Lossiriel’s arms, taking the pitiful piece of parchment and the ink sticks and forcefully pushes her through the door.

`Wait, I should put them in my bag,` Lossiriel shouts, still shaking despite the heat.

`No time! Let’s hurry!`

`We had time enough to banter, and now we need to hurry? The council room is close.`

When she makes to go left to the Hall, Sornë takes her arm and changes direction.

`It’s the war room, the smaller one. We have some distance to walk so let’s keep up the pace a bit. `

Arien is burning hot and white, making Lossiriel sweat. Sornë continueds to drag her at a rapid pace through the streets, working her way upwards. People look uneasy, their shadows twisting and stretching.

Down in the High prince’s courtyard, she spots Larcamo, dressed for patrol next to ten horses with a messenger flag. Further away, Lake Helevorn shines like a precious gem. In the distance she can see some kids racing sails. She does a double take; yes, that is her little brother racing. His are the only green sails, with some weird glowing fungus from before Rána, the moon, painted on it. He is obsessed with plants since acquiring a Moriquendi little brother. And explosions. If she remembers correctly, that had been an explosive fungus. Typical. His companion’s hair flows and flutters in the lake breeze, drinking in the sunrays. His hair is fiery with a white light and her eyes hurt to look.

Her hands start shaking again and she stumbles. Sornë’s grip on her arm tightens painfully and then they are in the front of the doors of the smaller war room. The captain of the guard stands at the entrance. Instead of the usual ushers, two of Carnistir’s body guards, Vantamo and Ristamo, uncharacteristically grim for once, open the doors, usher them in the council hall, and close the doors. They are more heavily armed than usual.

Atya signals silently for the paper. When she takes her place next to him, he takes the paper delicately and arches an eyebrow. She signals an apology. He shakes his head and silently taps his thumb with the palm slightly turned away, then twirls his pen quickly ~~~~in a warning signal. `No matter what happens don’t stop` it says. She weaves between her fingers a loose pattern of gold and grey with a questioning orange intersecting them. ` Why has the envoy from Thingol come here now?` Her father just tightens his grip on the pen.

` _Just record_ `.

Lossiriel weaves the first coils on her fingers, and stands poised to begin. Looking at the table, she sees an open letter on good quality paper, the ribbon long and black. And then the Sindarin envoy starts speaking and her world crashes down.

[2] Here I make a point to show the different types: parchment scrolls, 2 or two waxy paper scrolls, and the silk paper, arranged neatly at Nelcarmo’s workspace. Her cheaper paper detailed the distribution of writing supplies and the remaining supplies that could be used, by category. The parchment and vellum was mostly gone.

[3] She says Paper because they used it more in Valinor. Here in Arda since things decay more quickly parchment/vellum is better.

[4] This is much easier understand at a glance than actual writing. Similar to how chinese and japanese sentences can be read faster since the eye has to move less and the meaning is in characters that usually represent one word. So when they will go out and she has the ropes, somebody can catch a glimpse and be able to get the meaning immediately.

[5] This is much easier understand at a glance than actual writing. Similar to how chinese and japanese sentences can be read faster since the eye has to move less and the meaning is in characters that usually represent one word. So when they will go out and she has the ropes, somebody can catch a glimpse and be able to get the meaning immediately.

[6] He’s Maglor’s wife’s cousin’s nephew. 

[7] Meeting minutes are a thing. Minutes, also known as minutes of meeting or, informally, notes, are the instant written record of a meeting or hearing. They typically describe the events of the meeting and may include a list of attendees, a statement of the issues considered by the participants, and related responses or decisions for the issues. Minutes may be created during the meeting by a [typist](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Typing) or [court reporter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Court_reporter), who may use [shorthand](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shorthand) notation and then prepare the minutes and issue them to the participants afterwards.

[8] Sorne just shortens it to ton’ya from toronya.


	2. Rúsë (Anger)

Lossiriel watches the rope’s knot patterns numbly. Her skull seems gripped in a vice. Her fingers feel cold and stiff. The bundles of unused blues and pastels seem to be mocking her. The colours from the knotted ropes blur and swim before her eyes. Grey and gold bunch together aggressively; silver and red run along like bleeding rivers. And then gold and frayed black, void-black weave and choke the gold. The gold is alone in a sea of black; gold knotted with rusty red, blood red and silver white.

The pressure on her skull increases and it seems like a pick starts drilling into her brain. The doors fly open again and the captain of the guard rushes in, eyes blazing. Tyelperinquar Curufinwion runs in as well, hair still wet and cheeks flushed from sailing.

The noise changes frequency and swells in lower registers. The building starts shaking. The stones begin to resonate and sing to each other a song of unmaking, loosening their form and becoming air and dust. A counterpoint, loud and demanding, freezes it into place. Everybody, including her, has reflexively began to underpin the other sounds to making and enduring.

Nevertheless, it is Carnistir’s shouted command that stills everything. For a single painful heartbeat the air becomes solid and she feels her skull almost cave in.

A blink and the air rushes into her lungs again. The envoy is on the floor, blood pouring from their eyes, nose, and ears. They cannot form any words or specific sounds since their throats are clogged with blood.

Her fingers start working automatically, silver-grey and red running side by side.

Nillendur, who had put the sword at the envoy leader’s throat, puts it away and turns him so that he won’t choke. Silently, the other members of the guard do the same while the council stands motionless. In the deep silence punctuated by gasps and gurgles, the guard shifts uncomfortably and waits uneasily for new orders.

`Get them to a healer, preferably Lelyaner or Nisimion`. Carnistir orders evenly. `When they are better, and know not to make a scene, they will be released unharmed.` His face is red.

`Maybe that was not the best way to hammer your point then,` Tulcamai says softly.

`When have we bowed to demands from cowards that speak of things they do not understand or care to?` replies Carnistir, incensed. `They are themselves protected by our sacrifice. We repopulated barren lands and gave them opportunities and advancements they wouldn’t have been able to grasp alone. We brought the might of Aman here to fight and they try to diminish us, to make us vulnerable to attack? Isn’t this a more subtle kinslaying? And yet they dare condemn us.`

Tyelperinquar puts a hand to his uncle’s shoulder and Carnistir stops, folding into himself, hands shaking slightly. He rubs his eyes tiredly, straightens his spine and continues. `This meeting will be adjourned until further notice. I will need to contact my brothers. Until then, Nillendur, strengthen the western patrols and pull the forces from the south closer. We still need to do the roadwork, but it has temporarily became low priority. 

We expect news to travel fast and trade with the Sindar will suffer. We need an urgent estimate of trade loss repercussions for the main city and the satellite settlements. As for the Moriquendi, their attitude is ambivalent now, but they need only a little nudge to become actively hostile so we need to take steps to ensure things do not escalate with Ossiriand in the southern region. The Dwarves are an unknown element, and they do have some ties with Thingol, but they are not under his command. They shouldn’t be a part of this.

Contact with the settlements of the Sindar is not advised at this time. For those that are visiting or moved with them, they need to be extracted immediately. Trade related trips are to be cancelled. Use of lethal force is prohibited, as is permanent maiming.

Nillendur, organise patrols, and extraction teams. Separate the Sindar from the patrols and don’t let them leave. Treat them fairly but don’t let them do anything.

Tulcamai, meet with others and send the estimates this evening. Alcarion, escort the Sindar to the healers, under guard, and don’t let others access to them either, be they spouse or kin... Olrion, check the fortifications and weaponry. Where is Larcamo? He will be briefed, and go calm the others before I make the announcement. 

At the first starlight we will have an answer from Maitimo. I can already sense a new meeting so, Ranyarion check the routes and talk with the patrols to see which are safe. We will need to get ready to go so Elháion, while making estimations with the others, send to make preparation for it. Dismissed!`[1] And with this he strides out of the room.

`It seems Larcamo won’t be going on patrol today,` says Tulcamai. `Go and show him the minutes and give him enough details to help him make a strategy. I’ll go meet with the others after I tell my uncle to take care of your brothers.`

******

They hadn’t decided on a meeting place, but habit took him to the Starlings’ Pavilion[2]. The streets were buzzing with a nervous sort of activity.

Tulcamai enters the pavilion and glances around. Their group is not the only one there. In a corner, Vanyamire is lightly strumming his harp, oblivious to the atmosphere. Close to him, a Nandorin elf sits crosslegged on the chair, swaying slightly in counter rhythm to Vanyamire’s song. His hair is braided with small white pearls, showing the constellations of the eastern sky in spring.

Thúlëedil beckons him to their usual table to the right. Lúrion follows his line of sight and grimaces.

`He wants to make a song celebrating their latest acrobatics` he says, tilting his head upwards.

Tulcamai’s eyes follow the fractal pattern up the branches with gold and silver flowers, past the Dancing Stars, to the deep part of the Sea of Glittering. The starlings nest up there, between the stars.

When Thúlëedil had seen the first nest, he remodelled the building to better accommodate them. The result was a whole colony, a lot of song, some new ideas about military maneuvers and impressive spectacles each year.

`He’s also stuck on the second verse,` adds Sinwion, grimacing into his cup.

`He keeps repeating it ad nauseam,` says Elháion ruefully, twisting his wrist in the scout signal for idiot stuck in muddy terrain[3].

Thúlëedil groans and turns his back decisively to Vanyamire.

`As entertaining as it is to make fun of Vanyamire and admire my architectural genius, can we get on with it?`

`Maybe we should tell him not to bother, he won’t be needing Quenya for much longer,` murmurs Lúrion, eyes fixed on the Nando who is slowly turning the cup in his hands.

`We were called to make an estimate of the implications.` Sinwion says, briskly and purposefully, making Lúrion snap his eyes to him ~~.~~ His voice carries simmering undercurrents of anger.

`Culture, identity, lost. Assimilation possible if only others won’t continue treating us like oroqi. Additional loss of power from speaking a new language, a language that did not know the two trees. Lack of expression. I could go on, but the first three points are general enough to encompass all others. Literary potential and language evolution are lost as well. It will become a dead language, like us in the near future, as is intended and insinuated by Thingol. We should start composing elegies at this rate. Anything else?`

`The consequences for the newer generations maybe?` Elháion asks scathingly.

Tulcamai slams his cup on the table. `We were called to do an estimate on the economic part, not the language part.`

`Estimation: Bad to worse,` hums Thúlëedil airily while watching the Nando. He leans back on his chair, swaying on the back legs to Vanyamire’s rhythm. `We should hope our princes do not give in easily to this sabotage.`

`You should stop emulating your brother-in-law. That is not endearing coming from you.` Tulcamai snaps.

The Nando tilts his head back, cup loosely held, and whistles with the starlings. Vanyamire’s composure is shattered and his fingers twitch. A discordant twang resonates, picked up by the Nando’s whistle in perfect dissonance.

Sinwion grips his cup harder and Thúlëedil gets back to all fours with a loud crack.

`We need to be prudent and keep the Nandor’s friendship. If trade routes are blocked there will be quite a lot of push back,` Lúrion says calmly, inclining his head.

`So many insolent requests from those dark eyes,` murmurs Elháion in his cup, barely rippling the surface of the wine with his words. 

Suddenly the Nando is next to their table, smiling pleasantly. He raises his own cup, showing the dark blue eddies of the Glittering Sea and the left arm of the Sky River in a mocking salute, and puts it in the middle of their table.

A star-flower winks from its depths, distorted by the water.

`What was the last word you said? Dark eyes? It would be quite difficult to make a good poem off it. But since the Noldor are so crafty, I am all ears,`, he stated in Quenya.

Thúlëedil’s eyes narrow and search ~~on~~ the wall. The Guiding Star, made by Lúrion, is missing. 

Sinwion clenches his jaw and looks upwards into the Nando’s face while Elháion barely restrains his fury. Lúrion looks coolly at the sunken flower,taking up the cup and observing the star pattern.

`The game seems to be over from the beginning,` he observes unruffled. `The flower is already down.`

`Indeed,` the Nando says, smiling wider, stretching the syllables.

`Does it count though, if the flower is not a real one?` replies Sinwion through clenched teeth.

The Nando laughs. `Not a real one? Do you Noldor think so little of your craft?` 

`We do not presume take Yavanna’s role,` says Tulcamai in an even voice.

The Nando turns his head to him. His eyes are black, absorbing light.

`...Is that so? It does not matter; in the end we make the rules.`

`A game where the rules change on a whim is not worth playing` retorts Elháion. `nor is vandalism something a civilised person does.`

`I thought Noldor craved change; the past _y_ _é_ _n_ definitely show that,` the Nando replies innocently, the quenya sounds running silver. `Also, you must forgive me, since you showed a definite propensity for big scale vandalism yourselves. Or is it just petty vandalism that upsets you?[4].` He grins unpleasantly, speaking through his teeth. `And speaking of change...` he trails off while watching absently the left arm of the Sky River. 

`The Men awakened in Hildorien. My friend was there to guide them[5]. Their life is brief; after 2 yéni at most their forefathers will leave Arda. Also, there have been whispers of a Shadow taking an interest in and searching for them. If they fall to it, they will become shorter lived, _sickly_ , and kinslayers as well.`[6]

Tulcamai sees Sinwion’s fury, Elháion’s blazing eyes. Thúlëedil tenses, ready to spring and punch the Nando in the throat,[7] . Tulcamai tries to signal Lúrion to keep his cousins in check; but the Nando evades their possible attacks in a formal bow, takes the cup and drinks. The star-flower clicks against his teeth. Its light casts his features in a pale, warm glow, his eyes shining black. The game is over before it has begun.

`Luithaglîr,` Sinwion starts warningly, when the starlings swarm from the rafters and Tulcamai’s oldest son, Tulcamion, rushes in, hair still wet from sailing, laughing happily, his eyes bright.

`Ada, I went to find you but the Council Hall was full so I knew you’d be here. I think I found my adult name already, and no matter what Waraion says, it is **not** Úmaitë. I was with amme and uncle Waraion in his workshop this morning and she showed me some new alkali reactions in water. It was _great_ _,_ ` he says, skipping at his side.

`Where is your toronya?` asks Tulcamai with dread.

Tulcamion grins and points upwards. Everybody automatically looks upwards as well but the starlings are fluttering and making the starlit night sky ceiling feel covered in clouds. They don’t sense anything and Tulcamai frowns while Luithaglîr smiles. Cimelen, his youngest, jumps lightly on the table, waves at him and looks curiously at the Nando. Their eyes are identical pools of darkness.

`And here some were complaining about loss of cultural identity,` Luithaglîr remarks, ruffling the boy’s hair. `We should start a new drinking game.`

Tulcamai snaps rigid. `If you are insinuating...` he begins, but Luithaglîr interrupts with a hum that Cimelen apparently recognises, because he starts humming along and clapping in polyrhythm.

Tulcamion clings to him, trying to comfort, and when Luithaglîr stops, Cimelen bounds to him as well, beaming. Tulcamion snatches his brother’s hand and glares at Luithaglîr.

`Lúrion won’t be able to keep anyone in check at this rate,` Tulcamai thinks, livid. `Soon he won’t be able to keep _me_ in check.` His cup is shattered and he wonders briefly how and when that happened.

Luithaglîr wisely puts some distance to get out of lunging range and hums thoughtfully, ignoring them and scraping lightly at the Telperion support column.

 _`When cracks appear, the structural integrity suffers. You should take care of the cracks between yourselves first, then try to mend the others_ _,_ _`_ says his wordless song.

He turns to them and bows low. On his crown[8] they clearly see the left arm of the Sky River. He straightens and says his last message in Kindi[9], which for them sounds archaic and heavy with meaning `But since the parts have different affinities, I think your Tulcamion could tell you what happens next.`

He turns and leaves.

`Take care that you don’t get blinded by Arien, Mole,” Sinwion shouts at his back.

Thúlëedil and Lúrion watch the Telperion column intently. It has spider cracks running vertically, marring it.

[1] There are other things to do, but first of all, lack of manpower, second, they have much more experience, being long lived, and delegating goes smoothly, also many of them are related – and so act in everybody’s best interest. If I tried to show everything it would get too long. I hope I got the main points. Anyway, this is an aconomic and diplomatic nightmare. Here noldo are still in denial but things are going to get more heated. This will be off screen mostly since I don’t have the time to write about it though.

[2] Thinking about the noldor’s behaviour in aman, with gifting jewels and stuff to others and throwing gems on beaches and fountains, I think think there might hve been some semi-public buildings people could visit. When you know basically everyone around, at least a little, I think some lines are blurred in certain spaces. So this is why there are others, non-related people there. The pavilion is fully furnished with tables/cups/and beverages are left by those who go there. I imagine they wanted to make things feel like home, especially since they are close to the enemy and you can’t live in constant alert and dread.

[3] Because you get stuck in mud...

[4] He talks of course of alqualonde

[5] There;s the legend of the elf who saw the men sleeping and woke up two of them before the moon and sun; he then let them sleep again since it was not yet their time. There are a couple of versions, very intresting. (It is. I’ve never read that.)

[6] Remember Feanor not really liking the idea of Men and feeling it wasn’t fair for them to populate Arda? Also, comparing fallen men to noldo was meant to rankle them. (Seems to have worked lol)

[7] The throat because it’s the one making the speech- and it’s their point of contention

[8] Anatomically speaking

[9] Avari language closer to proto-quenya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramatis Personae  
> Thúlëedil Friend of wind  
> Sinwion (son of a known one)  
> Elháion (distant star)  
> Lúrion: blue (cousin of Sinwion and Elhaion).  
> Tulcamai – Lossiriel’s father  
> Vanyamire – an elf  
> Luithaglîr – Nando (Avari from the Kindi accepted in nandorin society) from Ossiriand  
> Tulcaion- Tulcamai’s son and Lossiriel’s younger brother


	3. Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luithaglîr and Tulcaion do some cross-culturalization.

Tulcaion stalks through the bushes, searching for his younger brother who has taken to disappearing into the forest. The air is charged with electricity, finally complementing the volatile atmosphere in the fortress in the past week. Older sister has been even more lost in her dreams than usual, running tallies and making estimates with Nercamo and Sornë . Her dark circles have become more pronounced, giving her the air of an angry raccoon. Atya is always in one meeting or another, and his temper is brittle. Not at him, but his words have a cutting quality, like obsidian rock that cuts with jagged edges and makes you bleed and hurts so much you wish to die quicker from blood loss. 

His own steel knife got shattered in his latest experiment with pycric acid. Waraion had laughed and told him to convince the smiths to work on a better alloy. Ammë had retorted no blade could withstand having a hundred grams of pycric acid and urea nitrate dumped on it and shooed him out to clean the area. He had tried to take ammë, at least, out of this crazy dance that seemed to engulf all adults and shove them closer to their deaths, but apparently his timing had been unfortunate and his plan had backfired.

He clenches his hands and starts to repeat atya’s words: `Failures happen. Things backfire. We get up and continue.` His heart is beating uncomfortably hard, pumping too much blood, too much oxygen to his head, making him dizzy. To calm down, he starts cataloguing elements by their explosive power. The birds are screeching in the canopy and leaves slap his face and arms like whips. The slope is getting steeper, the soft ground covered in leaves is treacherous and he’s breathing harder.

_`While in nature, take care of your surroundings`_ , Nercamo had said. He starts chanting the song he made to teach children of potential natural dangers, in order of apparition, sentience and intelligence. His favourite is the first one, listing the now extinct flora before Rana and Arien. He continues methodically through the next two verses describing dangerous present mountain flora and fauna, and finally gets to the last. His lungs are burning, his head feels clamped, like an animal who tries to stretch in a too small cage. His eyes water from all the leaves and branches that struck his face, and his hands itch from the chemicals he handled incorrectly in full view of ammë. She hadn’t noticed. Some of it had eaten through his protective apron and blisters ooze from his legs, mixing with dirt and other organic fragments. He gasps from effort, gulping air that sears his lungs, and viciously bites out snatches of the last verse he never really bothered to learn.

Green elf, dark elf, black elf.

Lightless, sightless, witless.

Treacherous

Poisonous

Burrow in their holes

Moles.

At the last word he is suddenly caught in a strong grip. Too late he realizes his legs have betrayed him at last. He half lands painfully on the ground. The Moriquendi watches him angrily. He will probably beat him up; he is one of the dangers, and Tulcaion can’t remember what was the advice for this, what he is supposed to do. He is encroaching on another’s territory.

Luithaglîr sighs and shakes the boy to snap him out of it. The boy’s terrified thoughts skitter all over his face.

`I am not going to kill you`, he says in Kindi and watches the boy start guiltily, eyes wide. Tulcaion’s brain decides it’s time to recite that stupid poem again with treasonous, treacherous and poisonous repeating and clamouring in his head. `nor am I going to torture you,` he adds in Quenya, shaking his head. `Your survival skills are abysmal. Who taught you?`

At this, the boy goes rigid and starts defending somebody called Nercamo in a torrent of words too quick for him to understand. He whistles sharply and the boy stops, gulping his last words. But his eyes are blazing, not with the light of Aman, but with a tamer one.

He sees the boy’s wounds and signals him to follow. The boy does not dare to disobey and finally he finds a good place to rest. On the way he listens to the birds and murmurs of the trees, talks with them and stretches his senses as far as possible. He signals the boy and Tulcaion meekly lets him clean and bandage his burns and blisters. After that, they sit together, eating from Luithaglîr’s provisions. Despite the boy’s initial reluctance, hunger seems to have won over. He sits in silence, listening to the trees. Next to him Atayion stews, shifts, and finally bursts.

`Were you upset by the song?`

When Luithaglar doesn’t answer he continues, moving his hands nervously.

`Everything went wrong. I can’t speak anymore because when I do everybody winces and their eyes get stormy. I was learning the lays and the main works from Aman, and I started composing my own, and now I have to stop! I’ll never be good then, not like my sister. I had finally chosen a name, and now it’s over! I’ll never have an adult name like my parents and older sister. I’ll be different. I can’t talk about ores and chemicals in other languages! I don’t know them very well. And the Completion Celebration is not happening anymore. We should be preparing for that and now amme and atya don’t even see me anymore!`

By this point, he cries so hard his words slur together. Luithaglîr tries to comfort him, but Tulcaion screams at him with a piercing sound that makes his vision go black for a heartbeat. So he tries another tactic, one he is sure will work.

`I heard you sing of the plants before Arien. Your information is faulty on a couple of them.`

Tulcaion stops and looks at him intently, then takes the bait.

`Which ones?`

Luithaglîr smiles faintly. `Well,` he begins, and then continues to tell him everything he wants to hear. Tulcaion absorbs his words, moves closer to him, starts asking questions and for clarifications, and eventually, realising Luithaglîr has travelled far and wide in Arda, begs for stories of his travels. His little brother, who had been playing with the swallows in another glade, finally comes to join them.

They watch the stars together and sing their songs.

The next day, Tulcaion clumsily tries to find him, so Luithaglîr gives him his first lessons in tracking and mountain survival. When Tulcaion pouts and jumps to the defense of his teachers who have already given him the basics, Luithaglîr simply points out his superior knowledge as a professional. That shuts him up and his attitude becomes respectful. This amuses him.

They continue their games, and soon Tulcaion starts whistling to him in Kindi from his home. Short messages at first and then, as he becomes more proficient, a constant stream of chatter. Soon, other childish voices rise up to greet him in whistle speech, hesitant at first and then more and more assured.

He knows everything that’s happening with the Noldor without even asking.

Luithaglîr starts teaching him to hunt and fight. Tulcaion is a vicious fighter, always trying to use the environment to his advantage. He starts bringing chemicals as well and after Luithaglîr barely escapes being atomized a couple of times, they stick to the traditional fighting style. Tensions are still high, and he is stalling, but he cannot leave yet.

His family will leave for the council, Tulcaion says one day, despondent, and Luthaglîr nods and distracts him with a new song in Kindi. Since realising it’s derived from proto-quenya, he has started learning it with renewed enthusiasm.

Luithaglîr leaves two days after the Noldor host. Tulcaion’s and others’ mournful whistles follow him longer than usual and he smiles.


	4. Acceptance

When Carnistir finally arrives at the council chamber, Finadarato is already there, critically inspecting the lines of the room. Which means he lays on the floor facing the entrance and keeps fiddling with some instrument. His hair is bound hastily. He sees Carnistir and waves him closer.

`Could you help me with some calculations, cousin? I think Liltano didn’t quite do a good job here.’

`Why, does the eleventh curve from the twentieth flower bud from the uppermost branch from the left side have a slightly different curvature than the other thousand?` `So you did notice,` exclaimed Findaráto, satisfied. `Quite sloppy for a council chamber, don’t you agree?`

`Or somebody was feeling rebellious,` replied Carnistir drily, watching Findaráto trail his clothes all over the floor.

`This is supposed to be symmetric, and neither you nor your brother would allow such in your craft.`

`Just think of it as an artistic statement,` he replied, shrugging. The sun rays slant and fracture in abstract, moving patterns. He suspects that if you put the pieces together, the sun rays will form a crown with Nolofinwe’s heraldic symbols. In five days, when the council begins, the image will be fully formed.’

Before he can mention it though, his two oldest brothers come in as well. Their faces are polite masks, which partially melt when they see the occupants of the room. Findaráto immediately goes to greet them. Makalaurë’s gaze follows the patterns minutely and then he rolls his eyes at his brothers. Maitimo politely pretends not to see anything and Findaráto engages them in a debate on intentional versus accidental statements in art and the influence it has on the audience’s perception.

Angaráto slinks inside from a side entrance and bows formally, eyes resting briefly on Carnistir, unreadable. He then approaches Findaráto’s group and greets Maitimo and Makalaurë again. `Should I call you Maedhros now?` he asks.

`Unless you are a Moriquendi from Thingol’s court, call me Maitimo,` his brother replies, showing his teeth. `I am well shaped by all that happened and I swore to demonstrate it. There is no shame in bearing your scars. We should constantly remind this to our people. Some are distressed by their maiming but look at me and find hope. If I can lead them, if I can hold my head up proudly, if I can become more fearsome in prowess, then they need not despair. I need not change my name in Sindarin to describe my self, I _am_ Maitimo.`

Carnistir finally approaches the group. `Before names, we should start with the fiasco that forces us to change our very selves. And about the person responsible for starting it,` he adds forebodingly and Angaráto defiantly answers that this wound has festered enough and it isn’t something that can be dismissed even with a high kingship.`Not that all remember who is high king of the Noldor,’ he adds pointedly.

He finds himself mocking Angaráto’s tone even as he sees his brothers give him warning looks. They do not say anything though, and let Findaráto handle his younger brother.

`No matter your intentions, context or the validity of your words, which seem a bit biased anyway, the timing could not be worse. Our sister knew and did not say anything despite Melian the Maia prying for information.`

`When would have been a good moment then?` Angaráto retorts, incensed, `When we have triumphed over the Black Vala and recovered Fëanaro’s jewels which we are forbidden to even look upon under pain of retribution?`

`When they have become more dependent on us!` replied Findaráto, his face clouded. `Some have tentatively started writing with tengwar. There is vocabulary from Quenya. They are slow to learn our language because they do not connect to our culture, our life. They never knew life without shadow, have never seen the trees. For them it’s an abstraction. Were they to learn it better, mingle with us more, this scenario would not appear.`

`So is it my fault? Where does the root lie? At my feet or theirs?` retorts his brother in the disgusted tone of a well rehearsed argument.

`A bit of thinking would do you good,` says Findaráto.

At this point all the Feanorians have discreetly retreated from the escalating family argument. Curufinwë strides silently into the room and comes to join them. He looks distastefully at the moving pattern and spots the flower bud within fifteen heartbeats of entering. His hands twitch.

He leans toward Carnistir and murmurs, `Accidental, and so makes a laughing stock of this room. If this is the type of leading we should expect from uncle….`

On the Arafinwean’s side, the argument continued, neither acknowledging the newcomer. `I am, it was the best thing to do. Forcing him to take a side. We now know exactly what Thingol will or will not do. If ever a Silmaril gets into his hands he will not ever let it go. He would probably call it some sort of payment for the sufferings of his kin and people,` Angaráto was saying.

`Let us hope it never happens then.` called Curvo, cutting in their conversation sharply. `I would hate to smear my sword with Elven blood again, no matter your opinion of us.`

On seeing Angaráto ready to start another argument, Makalaurë cuts in.

`We already talked of this,` he said. `They attacked us first. If you see your soldiers gutted like fish in front of you, you defend them.`

Angaráto turned to him and asked in a hard tone, `And who provoked such a response? You are ready to battle a Vala for the pinnacle of your craft. Should they not defend theirs?`

`They simply made the same choice as us,` replies Makalaurë gravely.

`So what, do you become blameless then? Although Thingol’s edict is senseless, he is well within his bounds to ask for reparation.`

`Senseless like crossing a shifting expanse of ice with women and children in self-righteous indignation?`Curufinwë says, smiling.

`Are you trying to guilt trip us into this as well? Who burnt the ships?`

`You think our father suffered the sight of things that have come at such a great price? He hated them, hated the blood that was spilled for them, blood that fell because of Ossë and Uinen’s Maiar as well. Their storms were barely weathered. Do you think we could have survived another crossing? Everybody would have died, or close enough. Better for them to burn. More people would have died. Many would have tried to go back and my father took that drastic action to prevent further casualties. It was also a signal for you to understand we got to the other side. He had planned to make it the last letter, incomplete so you would understand our conundrum. He also did it partly in defiance of Ossë and Uinen, but that was the point of no return and you should have understood,` Curufinwe replied, this time looking Angaráto fully in the eyes.

`Our uncle understood part of that,` replies Findaráto quietly. `This is why he crossed, and would have not denied his brother his aid. Our sacrifice was just as great, in the end. We bore more marks than you.`

Turkafinwe, who has arrived during the argument, seizes the moment and interrupts Angaráto before he can reply further, surprising him with a hug that is closer to a headlock.

`What is this?` he says loudly, ‘Did Loitano strike again with the flower buds? He made the same mistake on Ranyaion’s summer house. He must have also not thought things through with his little light and shadow play, because if a couple of persons change position, and you can bet me and my younger brothers would, instead of his crown, with a little bit of imagination we will have a naughty word in Quenya in its place.`

`That would be the word underscoring our meetings, and then, would his accidental design not become genius?` askes Findaráto. `Also, see, Carnistir, everybody notices it.`

`Your brother didn’t,` Curufinwe replied

`He doesn’t notice a lot of things,` Turkafinwe says, rubbing his head in an affectionate gesture that pulled a fistful of Angaráto’s hair.

`They will not take our language from us. It would diminish us, kill our core,` said Umbarto, appalled. He has arrived in his brother’s shadow with his twin. They were still in hunting clothes, fresh from the road. `Also, the light display is in poor taste. And that flower bud an eyesore. Who did it? Laitano?`

`For a deed of darkness we are denied the light,` said Makalaurë, ignoring his brother’s jibe.

`Not a good way of going about it then, remarked Curufinwe.

`We have lost so much, we haven’t won, what is one more indignity?’ replied Maitimo. `This will affect our people more than us. We should think on changing the trade language to Sindarin and help them so that the transition is smooth. Furthermore, we should think on some strategies so that our language does not wholly disappear from speech.`

‘I will not let this end like this,’ declared Curufinwe with burning eyes.

`Of course not. But it will end with us. And I dare say, this age,` replies Maitimo heavily.

`We need to make Thingol accept our parameters then. In a missive, with a formal diplomatic corps,` says Makalaurë thoughtfully.

`We should definitely not send Angaráto then,’ says Aikanaro, his silver-gold hair flashing in the light pattern. `You really should be more careful of your surroundings, brother` he says, smiling at Angaráto’s startled and indignant look.

‘I shall go then,’ decides Findaráto.

`Foregone conclusion`, mutters Curufinwe into Carnistir’s ear.

`We need to get as much leeway as possible. Although, as Maitimo said, I fear our language will become a relic in the ages to come, like us. Our deeds will be sung but the Noldor will be no more,` added Carnistir.

`Pushing for tengwar is a great idea then. Thingol cannot deny it is better than runes. And it has the added bonus of not being necessarily tied to a language. Everybody knows it by now, although usage is still restricted to diplomatic missives and trade, but he needs to make it official,` proposes Turcafinwe.

‘Also, loanwords remain, as well as names,’ Findaráto adds.

Curufin laughs. ‘To think, it will become high language in the future. Maybe some scholars will revive it at some point. And back on the shores of Aman, it continues unhindered. Too much stupidity in this for Thingol.

‘Come, we need to make sure the branches from those trees outside the council room stay undisturbed. We would be loath for Loitano’s work to be destroyed by random occurrences,’ said Turcafinwe mockingly.

'Then we need to make sure we are presentable for our first formal dinner,’ Angaráto says, looking a this brother’s rumpled clothes and hair. Findaráto is unfazed, smiles and starts singing of meetings between brothers and friends. The air is lighter, and after a few beats Makalaurë starts accompanying, followed by the others after some hesitation and some pointed looks thrown in by the elder brothers to Aikanaro and Umbarto.

The first two days of council go predictably. Despite having the largest population if Sindar, Turukano is absent, as well as Nolofinwe who had to go smooth some Sindar tempers in Falas. With Findekano as the representative of Nolofinwe, the discussion derails spectacularly since Findekano does not dare, or does not want to contradict Maitimo and Macalaure, even indirectly, as both are his elders and former high kings of the Noldor. Maitimo ignores serenely the shouting matches but his eyes scan every gesture.

They seesaw between family squabbles, one-upmanship contests between Curufinwe and Findaráto, reminiscing, and actual discussion on the ripple effect the implementation of the ban will have on the Noldor. The conclusion was made before their meeting here. They at least, will not succumb in this.

`If our father made such a fuss on a single letter, although arguably an important one for him, would we give up our entire language in fear of Thingol?` Makalaurë put things succinctly and that was that.

The scribes dutifully record the full minutes in both mediums: rope and paper, although sometimes they hesitate when some choice words are expressed, or the meaning is conveyed with gestures. Turcafinwe and the twins keep shifting so that the crown pattern is disrupted. Predictably, at one point the scribes had marked the flower bud and the silent comments spread like fire between them. Sensing their distraction, Curufinwe makes a disparaging remark on Nolofinwean craft and Findekano winces, but the fight is avoided since Findaráto cunningly interjects on the question of art statements and accidental versus intentional genius It’s not genius if it’s by chance,’ interjects Curufinwe, which sparks a discussion that goes through the end of the day.

The next couple of days days are spent on analysing the percentage of mixed marriages in each domain, as well as Sindar living along Noldor in close quarters or in satellite settlements and measures to prevent escalation of hostilities on both sides. Trade and economic impact are reviewed again in their updated form since the first announcement, and lastly, at Maitimo’s behest they turn to military matters.

On the tenth and last day of council, Luithaglîr, the roaming Nando from Ossiriand who had stayed the past couple of months in the forests surrounding lake Helevorn and sneakily taught the children whistle speech in Kindi, comes to the council as well. He is the only Moriquendi in between the blazing eyes of Calaquendi.

To Carnistir’s surprise, he makes a short report on the herd migration, with number of heads and number of allowed kills to Ambarto and Umbarto. The others, who have not met him yet, are circumspect but courteous enough. When Findaráto suggests wanting to keep friendly relations with the Nandor despite the circumstances, Luithaglir innocently suggests mingling. Even Maitimo seems a bit shocked at that, and Carnistir finds himself wanting to wipe the Nando’s grin off his face, so he says that he will consider it and asks about eligible ladies of his acquaintance. The first shock was nothing compared to this one.

`Why,` he says, `not that I will but I would. You never know`, he adds wisely.

Luithaglîr laughs and congratulates him. After this, the real discussion can finally start. Findaráto and Maitimo give him acknowledging nods of praise, `Turcafinwe mouths `cross-culturalization`, and he feels himself going red.

The gist of Luithaglîr’s speech is what he already suspects, although the request takes him by surprise. One of his scribes had adopted an Avarin child, and the Elves from Ossiriand would be more inclined towards friendly relations if a Noldo child would go live with them for a while. He mentions Tulcamion, and the father’s hand grips the pen so hard it splits, but he silently agrees.

The council breaks when the seventh star becomes visible.

‘May the stars shine on our next meeting,’ murmur the others, and Luithaglîr returns it graciously in Quenya.

While leaving, Findaráto comes to Carnistir and tells him about a new friend he has made:

‘I recently visited Turgon, and a young boy, Quengoldo, plans to write a chronicle singing our deeds. Though not even forty, he shows great promise to become a Lambengolmor. He had showed him some of his writings. Also, since he has a Sinda mother his perspective might be refreshing.

`Not if he was raised by Noldor,` Luithaglîr replies, overhearing his remark.

Angaráto ignores him and remarks that _Pengoloth_ has been writing quite a lot and Turkafinwe asks sardonically if Findaráto is the golden boy in those. Findaráto flushes, and with an apologetic glance towards Luithaglîr admits the young man is quite biased. 

`I bet he put in Carnistir’s remark to Angaráto, the one from the council,` remarks Umbarto, flicking his scout braid back.

`He will make us look like greedy idiots with a temper,` says Curufinwe in mock despair. `He has a bone to pick since I beat his father’s brother in that smithing contest.`

‘You beat him in jewelry making too,’ added Macalaure.

‘And oratory,’ supplied Turkafinwe.

‘Come to think of it, everything he did you had to do it better. And you encouraged your brothers to do it as well,` said Maitimo sternly.

‘This is why, except for Maitimo and Makalaure, neither of us will feature prominently in his opus despite our accomplishments. Maitimo, you had good relations to both his father and uncle, so I think you’re safe.’

‘In fact,’ says Findaráto mischievously, ‘he likes you so much, Maitimo, he pretends the twins don’t even exist. You’re the only redhead in the family as far as he’s concerned. He has quite a bad case of hero worship for you, despite only seeing you once from afar.`

Maitimo gives a suffering sigh, and Turcafinwe laughs.

`You never escape admirers.`

`Come to think of it,` Angaráto interjects, his curiosity for gossip trumping all his misgivings, ‘what was it about? Your contest I mean.’

`About a girl, of course. She was too good for him, we just showed her that. And in the end, she did choose Luthaion who was by far the superior choice. But resentment apparently continues in the new generation.’

This time even Angardo rolls his eyes, and to nobody’s surprise they start bets on what exactly this young boy most of them haven’t even met will write about them.

After dinner, which is less tense than expected, Makalaurë sings in honour of Luithaglîr, in Quenya. In answer, Luithaglîr gets up, lips twitching, and sings a song in Kindi, a song of those who had loved Arda and remained there, remaining true to their roots. The melancholy tone laments the partings that were made then between the people. After this, Makalaurë and Findaráto take Luithaglîr and start composing together a song that would be in the most ancient form of Quenya, from before the partings.

A while later, when the stars have started fading in the light of Arien, Carnistir goes looking for his brother and finds him talking intently with Fingon and Findaráto.

`I have a package for you,' Kano,’ says Carnistir to his brother’s back.

He turns and smiles. `I’ll send you a written poem as soon as possible then.`

The next day, the Council predictably derails again in a Proto-quenya scholar assembly, with Turcafinwe as instigator and Luithaglîr as the main speaker. In the end they make a small dictionary with Proto-quenya words in Quenya, `As a gift for Thingol,` Turcafinwe says with satisfaction. The letter to Thingol is drafted the same day, in a smaller room where it’s only the high princes.

`With the Sindar, who are slower to learn, we will graciously refrain from confusing them with Quenya. Although they still need to learn some new words for which they unfortunately don’t have the vocabulary. We also are not so bigoted we cannot accept loanwords from them when and if the possibility arises. Is this the gist of it?` asked Fingon, grimacing slightly. `Not very diplomatic.`

`That will make Thingol explode,` remarks Turkafinwe. Findaráto shakes his head and Maglor smirks.

`Well, we should work it around a bit. Go to the roots, so to speak.`

Curufinwe got up, eyes gleaming. `I will go make a special knot. I shall borrow your forges, cousin.` He strode out of the room with Amras. 

`Should we be worried?` asked Findaráto looking to Maitimo.

‘He will behave,’ he answered. And added in the same bland tone, `It won’t be lethal, probably.` Carnistir can’t help but snort at this, and Findaráto gets a faraway look that could mean anything. In the end he smiles and they resume the drafting.

Before leaving for Thargelion, Carnistir looks for Angaráto to discuss the opportunity of more streamlined trade between Dorthonion and his and his brothers’ domains.

`Is this your apology?` asks Angaráto coldly.

Carnistir shrugs. `I would not let petty things stand in the way of trade.`

`Petty things? When you and your brother keep ruining my hair?`

`Is _this_ what upset you?` asked Carnistir laughing. He tries to slap his back but Angaráto eschews it and waits for his reply. `Your hair looks quite well. It had _yeni_ to grow again. Shorter hair is also better in battle. I made you a favour that one time. You never know when somebody is going to grab your hair. It might save your life.`

Angaráto scoffs. `That kind of thing would only happen to untrained warriors.`

`Perhaps,` agrees Carnistir.

When he presents the terms, carefully written on good quality paper, Agarato’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously.

 **`Is** this an apology?`

`Just think of it as a lesson in generosity and diplomacy. After all, Maitimo advised we should be more lenient to our younger cousins, and I try to follow his example,` Carnistir replies,tone his tone skirting the fine edge between good-natured jibe and maliciousness. `I look forward to hearing your positive reply,` he says, wisely leaving before Angaráto can find a weapon.

*** ~~*~~

Back in Dor Caranthir, the autumn harvest has started. Luithaglîr comes and starts the discussion with Tulcamai’s family about the Tulcamion’s adoption into a Nandorin family.

After the harvest ends, the whole family goes to the furthest southern point of Thargelion to accompany their relative one last time. Along with them go a part of the road construction workers, guards, and an envoy bearing gifts to Tulcaion’s new family.

The road will be fully mapped by the end of winter and in spring the construction will start in earnest. Tulcamai and his family remain there. In spring, Luithaglîr visits with Tulcamion and his new older brother. Tulcamion calls himself Arassegas. They visit frequently during the warm seasons, and Lossiriel anticipates their meetings more and more. She calls to them in whistle speech, learns Kindi and asks Luithaglîr to teach her Cuind, Hwenti, Windan, Kinn-lai and Penni. She travels with him a while, but he becomes more and more elusive, and a long while she only hears his whistles. Then one day he tells her she has learned all she had to, and he disappears.

In south Thargelion the completed road snakes toward the mountains like a gleaming ribbon of water, and near lake Helevorn the Completion Celebration starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Dramatis personae and glossary  
> Narcamo (stern), has a fluffy cat named Death Claw.  
> Lossiriel (flower garlanded maiden), jokingly called by Sorne (steadfast woman), and Loriel (dreaming daughter)  
> Moronen ink guy. He was called sweet before, but changed his name thus when he was bestowed a new name by Finwë.  
> Waraion (dirty) Also, warau in Japanese means to laugh.  
> Larcamo, (swift river) Sorne’s brother  
> toronya = younger brother  
> Rána and Arien = the moon and the sun  
> Painite is one of the rarest gems on earth. Noldor would definitely have some expressions with them.


End file.
